40

THE AMERICAN ROSE SOCIETY HOLDS ITS FALL ROSE SHOW and convention in Los Angeles this year. It is the most important rose show I have attended yet. I enter two competitions. One for the Rose Hybridizers Association Trophy, and another for consideration in the next International Rose trial.

I write the seedling’s name on the form. The Riley.

Riley and I drive down the night before, my rose in hand. My stomach feels like it’s tied into Celtic knots, and whenever I get behind the wheel, my foot turns to lead. I let Riley drive most of the way, forcing myself to relax. This time it’s me who turns the music up too loud.

The show is at the Hilton at Universal Studios, in Studio City. “Can we go to Universal Studios, as long as we’re here?” Riley asks as soon as we get into the lobby, as I knew she would. She rolls the cooler behind her with the rose inside. I have made no effort to hide the big “Riley” sticker I have made for it.

“We’ll see. If I win, then definitely.”

“I think I have better luck when you lose,” Riley says.

“Probably so,” I say. “Heck, if I lose this time I might be so depressed that I’ll take you to Vegas.”

“But I’m too young to gamble.”

I shrug. “Guess that’ll be too bad for you.”

“Oh, Aunt Gal.”

I immediately feel at home. The lobby has two-story windows curved inward, resembling a greenhouse. A long chandelier lights up the room and a large rose arrangement underneath.

Riley turns away the bellhop who tries to take the cooler, wheeling the thing across the lobby herself. She pushes the elevator button. “Can we at least go into CityWalk and look around?”

The hotel adjoins a colossal mall, full of pricey entertainment and dining options. “All right. But outside of dinner, you’ll have to use your allowance.”

• • •

THE ROSE SHOW takes place in a great ballroom the next morning. Lights glow above in two starburst chandeliers set into the ceiling. The carpet, in polka dots that remind me of black olives, makes my head swim if I stare at it too long.

Riley wears a light purple polo shirt, in honor of the Hulthemia, with khaki pants and a matching purple headband with white stripes. “You’re turning positively preppy,” I tease her. I put on an argyle cardigan in many pastel colors, knowing the air-conditioning will be cranked high, over my own khaki pants. For the first time, we look as though we could be related.

Rows of tables have already been set up, each with a white tablecloth and a number. I get my number, 110, and look for my table, Riley trailing behind with my cooler. There are masses of people running about, busily setting up multiple displays, and the air is thick with the scent of roses. Sweet and musky. Spicy and fruity. Peaches, pears, strawberries. Honey and cream. Loose tea. Red wine. Pepper. My nose is busier than a bloodhound’s.

Every rose I see is perfectly formed, a prime example of its breed. The displays are meticulously arranged, every bloom looking as though it was just plucked from a dewy bush. The room looks like a bridal wonderland.

This is the biggest rose show I’ve ever attended. My Hybrid Rose category has three dozen competitors, all spread throughout the tables.

Across the room, I see Byron’s head. He nods once. I nod back.

May the best rose win.

Riley and I reach the 110 table. I pop open the cooler and take out the rose. I have packed it in a base of Styrofoam and breathe a sigh to see it still upright in its pot. I take it out and place it into a larger ceramic pot that Dara has made for me. The pot is beautiful, with metallic tones of gold, silver, and green. It makes the Hulthemia rose colors pop.

“Raku?” Riley asks, turning the pot.

“That’s it.” I am not sure what raku means, other than it’s the way Dara fired it. She took it out of the hot kiln and put it into an old oil drum filled with sawdust.

Riley runs her hand over the piece. I straighten the tag I’ve attached to the plant. It’s all I can do to not point to it.

At last she notices. “Does that say ‘Riley’?”

“If it were a snake, it would have bitten you.” I move behind the table.

She is silent, regarding the pottery and the Hulthemia. The rose is at its best today. Its blooms have matured into many layers of petals, twenty-six at last count. The white stands out from the lavender like irregular stripes on candy, and the heart center is a stunning dark purple instead of red. I can see more buds appearing, and it hasn’t gotten too bushy yet, like the original Hulthemia in the wild would. Its leaves are luxuriously dark green and its stamens stick out canary yellow.

I sniff the bloom nearest me. The scent has also matured. Green apples, vanilla, and an undertone of cayenne. Like being in the spice aisle of the grocery store, holding an apple pie in your hands. Sweet, but not too sweet.

Like Riley herself.

Not that I would tell her that. She would be terribly embarrassed.

I think it’s the best Hulthemia I’ve ever seen.

Maybe the best rose.

I touch the petals gently.

“It’s beautiful, Aunt Gal,” Riley says.

I nod. “Thank you for saving it, Riley.”

“It’s you who created it.” She gives me a gentle smile and comes back around the table. We sit down together on the flimsy folding chairs and watch as people drifting by stop to admire the flower. My flower. Drawn like bees.

If I have been judged, I am not aware of it. So many people have come by the table, some with clipboards, many with cameras, asking questions and jotting down notes, that I could have been judged a hundred times over and been unaware.

Ms. Lansing walks up, most definitely a judge. Today she wears a peach suit with a creamy ruffled blouse, her heels three inches too high for any human being, her pantyhose unnaturally tan. She beams, lipstick on her teeth. “Gal. My goodness. Glad to see you out and about.”

“I’m not dead yet,” I say, only half joking.

She blanches. What people don’t know is if you don’t joke about cheating death, you’ll be horribly depressed all the time. It does throw some off.

“Good for you,” she says faintly. She puts on the glasses from the chain around her neck and regards the rose. She makes a soft clucking noise in the back of her throat, like some strange hen. Which in fact she resembles, with her large chest tapering to tiny feet. Riley and I grin at each other.

Ms. Lansing’s mouth straightens into an ugly line. She begins writing, fast, on her clipboard. She turns the judging sheet over and writes some more. I begin to feel nervous. Surely it’s not a good sign, all that writing.

Three more judges walk up. Of course. They wear name tags with long green ribbons dangling from them. I smile and greet them. Ms. Lansing hasn’t moved out of their way yet.

The judges see my flower and turn very serious. One of them, a man in his sixties with a great gray handlebar mustache, asks, “How did you obtain the striping?”

My phone rings. The number is George’s. My heart thunders. “Pardon me,” I say to the judge. There’s only one reason for him to call me right now. To give me the kidney compatibility test results.

“Watch the table, Riley.” I walk away, heedless of the judges, heedless of everything except the necessity of getting to a quiet place. “Hello?” I say, moving out of the ballroom at a fast clip.

“Gal.” It’s George. “I have the results.”

I take several breaths, leaning against a wall. “Well, what are you waiting for? Break it to me.”

I can feel his extreme regret before he utters another word. “I’m sorry, Gal.”

I blink at the ceiling. I sink to the floor. Darn. I hadn’t realized quite how badly I wanted his kidney. How much I had expected it to match. How perfect that would have been, a solution right under my nose.

“The other teachers with type O blood have all agreed to be tested, too,” he says. I swallow. My voice doesn’t work.

“We’ll make announcements at the school, at church, on Twitter. We’ll set up a chain donor system. Don’t you worry, Gal.” His voice, warm and worried, comforts me somewhat. Imagine. George doing this for me.

“I am very grateful,” I manage to choke out. “Thank you.”

I hang up and sit for a minute, drawing my knees up to my head, resting my forehead there.

Tonight I will go to a dialysis center here in Los Angeles. Our hotel room will be empty; I’m not comfortable having Riley stay alone in a hotel, away from me and from home. I will do this the day after tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow after that, and so forth forever, through vacations and work, picking up infections the way black sweaters catch lint.

I am not sure how long I can continue. How long I will continue. The human body has its breaking point.

I find I cannot bring myself to get up. Not one of the dozens of people walking by asks me if I need help. I don’t blame them. They are all concerned about their own roses, their own judging.

“Hey.” Riley is shaking my knee. “Auntie.”

I raise my head to look at her. The poor girl’s face is creased with concern. I’m going to prematurely wrinkle her. “Sorry, Riley.” I hold up my hand. She pulls me up. “I just had to sit for a second.”

She considers whether or not to accept it. I begin walking to the table. “Anything exciting happen while I was gone?”

“The judges took your rose,” Riley says, skipping ahead of me and walking backward though there are people jamming every available breathing space.

I don’t understand. “What do you mean?”

“They took it. The man with the mustache.” She hands me a receipt. “You have to pick it up later.”

I crumple the pink receipt into my pocket.

“What does this mean?” Riley asks.

“I don’t know. It’s never happened to me before.” Our table is, indeed, empty, save for the number 110. The tabletop looks large and empty and sad. I stop and stare.

Riley takes my hand. Once smaller than mine, it’s now larger. She pulls on me gently. “Let’s go take a break, Aunt Gal.”

She should not have to lead me, this child in an adult body. I want to tell her so.

But I am too tired.

I follow her out of the ballroom.

• • •

I TRY MY BEST to lift myself up out of my funk, but I keep dwelling on George’s news. I phone my mother.

“I’m on my way,” she says promptly.

“No, Mother.”

“Gal, at least let me do this for you. I’ll stay with Riley tonight so you don’t have to worry.” I hear a car door bang. “I’m already in the car. You’re only two hours away. There’s nothing you can do about it now.”

“You better hang up, then.”